Thor: The Dark World
by burningrosegirl98
Summary: Soldier-turned-barista Alex Jennings is ready for anything to save her from her boring civilian life. Finding an ancient sword that happens to be cursed? Sure, why not? Finding its supposedly dead owner who just happens to be Loki Laufeyson's daughter? Of course. Helping a supposed-to-be mythical Norse god save realms? Imperative.


I have become absolutely and ridiculously obsessed with Thor and The Avengers… and Tom Hiddleston. *Looks down in shame* This is the result. I hope that you guys enjoy it! It was really interesting for me to write, and since I have this terrible habit of never finishing any story I begin, you people will have to help me finish this one! That is, if it's even worth it. XD I really value your input. Please review and tell me what you think! It takes place during the events of Thor 2, just more centered on this character. Don't worry, I'll be sure to have the others in there too.

Of course, Thor 2 isn't even out yet, but this is what I would like to happen. I don't own any characters you recognize from the story, only mine.

…

Chapter 1: Adjusting

When Alex gets a call from Agent Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D., she's doodling flowers on the manila folder that contains—or used to contain, anyway—records of John Stevens' military service. She's been doing this for the past twenty minutes or so. It's a rather boring task, but it does save her from the tedium of the news and shopping networks.

Since it **is **almost 2:30 in the morning, she certainly isn't expecting her now-charging phone to begin ringing, the sound reverberating loudly through her apartment. Wincing at the sudden, shrill noise, she scoots her chair back, stands up, and walks over to the cell. Damn thing. Peering down, she sees that the caller ID reads: _Number Blocked_.

Sighing a little, she tears out the charger from the phone and almost reluctantly presses the green answer button.

"Coulson."

It's a statement, not a question. She can almost see the smug-but-not-smug little smile he gives. Wait, is it even physically possible for him to do that? Probably not. The closest he's ever come to it when she's seen him is a twitch and nothing more.

"Jennings."

"Don't tell me Sitwell said that I was being uncooperative."

"He did."

"Don't tell me you're going to try."

"What do you think, Jennings?"

This time it's **her **turn to smile. He really hasn't changed all that much, has he? Then again, nothing else that was formerly in her life seems to be different. It's only the things she's seen and experienced that make her feel as if everything **should **have changed. Well, there was that whole I'm-going-to-take-over-the-world incident caused by that maniac Loki that left a good portion of New York in tatters, but it's not as if that's important.

She actually laughs—granted, it's more of a tired one, but better than nothing and more than she's done for a couple years now.

"Haven't you heard, Coulson?" she says in her smart-ass voice. "I've been honorably discharged. You can call me Alexandria now, but I really would prefer Alex."

"Oh, really?" he responds.

"Yeah. Does that mean I have to call you Phil? It's a great name and all, but I just think that it sounds too much—"

"—Jennings—"

"—like, I don't know, a fat, hypocritical doctor who likes to sit on his couch and watch porn or something. You, on the other hand, are not fat and **definitely **not a doctor, although the porn thing I can't be sure about—"

"—JENNINGS."

She shuts her mouth and smirks. Nope, Coulson hasn't changed one bit, and for that she's actually glad. Still, all joking aside, she knows what he wants to ask, and she's not having any of it.

"I know what you're offering, and no, I won't take it."

She can just hear him grinding his teeth before he shoots back, "Just listen to me, kid. And I mean really listen. S.H.I.E.L.D. is offering you a job, a good job, with great pay and everything."

"I'm already aware that I'll be relegated to deskwork, Coulson."

"No, you'll be working in the lab. You are—were—a medic. A good one."

"A damn incredible one at that, yeah. But I don't see your point. I can do a hell of a lot more than totter around in a white coat, and yes, before you say anything, that and deskwork are the same to me."

She knows the wheels in his head are turning, and he's trying to imagine some witty comeback that will make her re-consider the offer. Alex won't lie to herself—she's tempted a bit. Being around that kind of environment, with all those incredible minds at work, is enough to make any genius slobber. And she also won't deny that she's missed being treated with the respect that she has become accustomed to over her five years with her unit.

Still, it's not what she wants or really needs to do.

What she really needs is a job where she can kick ass, and between her recent diagnosis and S.H.I.E.L.D., she knows that isn't going to happen. So, it is with a steely conscience and a deep breath that she declines it once more.

"I'm really sorry, Coulson," she says, and in reality, she is, "but I'm not going to sit around like some useless oaf when I could be doing what I do best—what you know I do best. It looks like you'll have to find somebody else."

Ignoring his protests, she hangs up.

Damn. She could really use a drink right about now.

…

The fact that she's working at Starbucks as a barista, making coffee for annoying customers and plastering a pretend smile on her face, is depressing, she admits, as yet** another** woman complains about the lack of strength her latte has. Not that depression is an emotion she is capable of experiencing. Still, she's read enough books to realize that any other person in her position would have most likely shot themselves in the head or gone bat-shit crazy by now.

She barely stifles a yawn as she makes yet another latte for the aforementioned lady, who can't seem to stop saying that she is late for work and that Alex's manager **will **be hearing about this. It's not as if this even matters to Alex. Very quietly, she hands the lady her new coffee, says politely, if not blandly, "Have a nice day, ma'am," and returns to her spot at the counter.

The irony that this is a boring, monotonous means to make money, and that she refused the job offer that S.H.I.E.L.D. gave her on the grounds that it would most likely be boring and monotonous, is not lost on her. Actually, even that probably would have been more interesting. No people complaining about their damn coffee, no stupid sugar packets to open, and no annoying male baristas desperately flirting with her and telling her that they can show her a good time.

_Oh, it isn't so bad, _she thinks to herself. _I mean, you could be slumming it on the streets, right? You could be sleeping in a nice little coffin six feet under the ground right about now, but you're not, are you? So toughen up._

It still sucks.

….

When she finally gets home, she feels too frustrated and exhausted to even bother turning on the television. Instead, she plops down on the couch and closes her eyes, willing herself to slip into unconsciousness.

The sleep doesn't come.

It never does.

Anger fills her, an anger that she's become used to over the last three months. She swiftly sits up and puts her head in her hands, becoming aware of the painful migraine now seemingly piercing her skull—the headache that comes with only getting about two hours of sleep a night, sometimes not even that.

Alex ventures into the kitchen, where she finds the Tylenol container on the counter. Hurriedly, she pops the pill into her mouth, swallowing it with a swig of water. She leans against the table as she waits for the medicine to take its effect.

It's not coming soon enough. Groaning at the throbbing and the nausea, she pinches the bridge of her nose.

"One would believe," she mutters to herself, "that after the damn cognitive rewiring, I might get some relief. And yes," she says even louder, " I am aware that they have absolutely NOTHING to do with one another!"

The anger doesn't leave her—in fact, it grows. She picks up a glass and—

_WHOOSH_—

- it shatters into hundreds of pieces on the wall opposite her. Red and black tint the corners of her vision.

Just for good measure, she slams another down onto the tiles. She kicks and she sweeps things off the table and it takes her a while to realize that she is crying, really crying, which is something she hasn't done in a long time.

The anger diffuses, and in its place there is… nothing. She shakily lowers herself onto the chair and tries to wipe the tears from her face.

No, she will not cry. She is Alexandria Jennings, a _soldier, _for God's sake, and she will definitely not cry. Crying means opening oneself up emotions, like _sadness, _or _fear, _and she knows better than to do that.

No.

They're wrong, they're **all **wrong. She is not depressed. She's _not. _

It suddenly strikes her that she'll have to clean up this damn mess, and that snaps her out of her reveries about as well as anything else. Still sniffling, she fetches the broom and begins to sweep up the broken glass that covers her kitchen floor.

Maybe she was wrong.

Maybe, instead of the bullet to the brain…

Maybe she's just losing her mind.

…..

Whew! Haha! It took me quite a while to finish, but I feel really inspired right now. Perhaps (I think maybe has been used enough :D) another chapter might come within the next week or so. I hope so. And did anyone who happens to read this story catch the "another" thingy from Thor in this one? All right, I admit, it wasn't that funny… you know what, I'm just going to shut up now.

Random Voice: Yeah, you'd better!

*Glares* Anyways, a couple songs go great with this fic, and I'll name them for you:

Breath of Life by Florence + The Machine

Perfect World by Gossip

Made of Stone (Renholder Remix) by Evanescence

So, that's really it for now! See you in a week or so! *Salutes*


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